


Half-whole

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Firefly
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-19
Updated: 2005-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:11:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be better, she thinks, if she hated him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half-whole

It would be better, she thinks, if she hated him. If she _could_ hate him. Easier. Channel grief and pain into hate and let it burn off like ash till the wound is clean and healed.

If she hated him, she could pack up and leave, get away from the memories, get a job in the world somewhere and learn to be someone new.

But she can’t leave, because everything she and Wash had, they had _here_ , and she don’t know if she’ll ever be able to leave that behind. If she should even want to.

And she can’t hate him, because it’d be like hating herself, and while he’s capable of it, she knows it’s not only stupid, but crazy, the kind of thing that makes you weak when you need to be strong. It’s one of the things he doesn’t understand, one of the few things they don’t share. One of the things that reminds her they are two separate people, though part of each other in ways no one else will ever understand.

With Wash she was only and wholly herself; she gave herself to him completely, and he did the same in return. Together they were more -- better -- than just themselves. She lays a hand on the flat of her belly -- they'll never be more again. That chance is gone now, though she’d hoped, fiercely, those first few nights, sleepless and sobbing, when nothing but body memory and sheer force of will (not all her own) was getting her through the days.

Now she’s dry-eyed, grief settled into a sharp, steady ache in her heart, her flesh, her bones. She throws herself into repairing Serenity, because she can’t bear that loss as well, her own grief and his on top.

As much as possible, living in tight quarters as they do, she avoids Kaylee, who radiates joy even through her grief (and Zoe knows Kaylee’s grieving, sure as she knows her own name), because Kaylee oughtn’t be feeling guilty for getting lucky just as Wash’s luck ran out.

Jayne tries to help, in his way. He offers her his best bottle of hooch, libations for the dead; they drink toasts to Wash long into the night, the rough burn of whiskey dulling the ache for a bit. He even manages to keep his hands to himself until they’re stumbling back to their bunks. His crude offer is even kind of endearing in a twisted way -- it makes her laugh, any road, which is more than anyone else is able to do now, and it feels comfortable, normal, to swat him away with a half-serious threat, to forget for just a few seconds that the bunk she’s going to is empty, and that she’s going there alone.

She visits with Inara, her shuttle the one place where Wash’s ghost don’t linger. Inara pours tea into delicate china cups and Zoe remembers what it’s like to be held so carefully, as if she were as fragile as porcelain and a million times more precious. She remembers feeling blessed and awed that anyone could touch her like that, _love_ her like that, and mean it.

Zoe can feel herself slipping when Inara breaks the silence. “Please feel free to come in any time you need to. Even if I’m not here.”

“Thank you,” she says, and she means it. She sets the cup down onto the table and forces her fingers to stop trembling, her eyes to stop burning. Inara reaches out, folds a cool white hand around Zoe’s warm brown one, and squeezes for a moment. A gentle touch, and Zoe thinks she just might heal if she doesn’t break soon.

She takes a deep breath and stands, one hand going absently to the cord around her neck.

Inara doesn’t say anything more, and Zoe appreciates that more than she could possibly say. She has a feeling Inara knows.

She holds tightly to that forced calm when she is on the bridge, the sight of Wash’s toys arrayed on the console like an army, like a wake, stopping her in tracks.

River sits in the co-pilot's seat. Mal is the only one who sits in Wash's seat now, and when he does, Zoe can see the discomfort on him, like he's wearing a suit made for someone else. Her heart clenches when he sits there, and her eyes burn when it is empty, but she knows he's only doing what's necessary.

"He hates himself for it," River says. "So you don't have to."

"I know," she says. "I know."

And she knows it ain't right, but somehow, it makes things easier.

end


End file.
